It’s funny, I’ve started carrying the first draft of my book outline with me everywhere. I went to bed last night and couldn’t sleep, so I wrote ideas in it into the small hours. I slept beside it in the bed, and when I woke up, I took it with me into the garden with the first cup of tea of the day.

A lot of the day was hard. Bad pain, not enough sleep… Whenever I wake up, the memory of losses floods me and my adrenaline spikes. I’m alert and feeling ill and unable to get back to sleep. It will pass. Whenever I touch the book notes, something in me calms. They are some kind of talisman for the easing of my heart.

It sparks a memory, of being a student at school, caring with me at all times my huge blue folder of poems. It was my lifeline, my shield against that world. I don’t write in my journals as often these days. I have Rose, and other people to talk to, there’s less quiet moments in my day that lend themselves to poetry, and I write this blog. I don’t know how long this passion will last, if the spell of calming will wear off. For now, I’m grateful.

I’ve been speaking a lot lately with people about crisis and multiplicity and being a carer and recovering from trauma and grieving. It’s really crystallised for me that I do have some unusual ideas and approaches that can be helpful for other people at times. I have come through a lot, learned a lot, been able to put good ideas and good advice from others to use. There’s a sense of purpose and meaning in this work that is keeping me going at the moment. Perhaps the best part of it is that it doesn’t cause me pain. I can write on bed, at my desk, in the bath, in the garden, but it doesn’t hurt the way almost all the rest of my working life does currently. That’s a blessing indeed.